


it means what it needs to

by onlyconiferous



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: (but she's not gonna talk about it), ??? to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean, I'm not even going to pretend that there's a plot, Mutual Pining, Nakia feels a whole lot of things, Pining, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Valkyrie tries very hard to be chill, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25326400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyconiferous/pseuds/onlyconiferous
Summary: Nakia knows why the woman irritates her—everything is falling apart and her anger, which rises in her chest, cools some, then keeps expanding until it threatens to scorch her lungs and breach the boundaries of her being, is attenuated by Brunnhilde’s calmness.Post Snap, Valkyrie and Nakia hang out sometimes. It's not a whole thing; it's not like they like each other.Okay, they might, a little bit.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Nakia (Black Panther)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3





	it means what it needs to

In Wakanda, clammy air beats against climbing pyres of smoke, and the fields are upheaved lopsidedly by all those who’d trodden heavily and died upon them. Nakia is exchanging fast words with Okoye- surveying the ashen terrain for bodies moving and unmoving, trying to hear Banner’s frantic explanation over the rushing in her ears. Nakia’s face and chest burn one part harsh breathlessness and two parts throbbing rage, that she was gone and this happened- she _left_ this to happen, so many people dead and she didn't do nearly enough. She slides a catatonic soldier from her shoulders and her hands nearly tremble as she thanks the medic— Shuri, also gone. All Nakia wants to do is sit.

Instead, she walks towards the spacecraft, and the woman astride it.

Like Thor, an Asgardian. Unlike Thor, dark, unimpressed eyes and significant arms relaxed as she leans against the pod-shaped spacecraft. Brunnhilde levels her eyes with Nakia’s face and looks for what feels like such a long time that she must be outlining the shapes of the Wakandan woman’s twitching jaw, her creased brow, her carefully pressed lips, taking all these lines and drawing information from the afterimage.

Some part of Nakia knows that this silence lasts only a few seconds, although it feels like enough time passes for the sun to fall and the night’s cold, dense clouds to rise.

Brunnhilde blinks quickly and doesn't wait to weigh her words, “Someone’s pissed.”

“You really want to have a conversation? Now?”

“Well, the battle’s just ended-”

“That wasn't a serious question. I- What’re you doing here?”

“Just waiting.”

“Waiting for… _what_?” Nakia knows why the woman irritates her—everything is falling apart and her anger, which rises in her chest, cools some, then keeps expanding until it threatens to scorch her lungs and breach the boundaries of her being, is attenuated by Brunnhilde’s calmness. Then, there is that more subliminal feeling of frustration that comes from seeing Brunnhilde here and now.

“Thor,” with eyes lowered towards Nakia, the Asgardian’s expression is amused in a way that toes the edge of brazen, so neutral that it might be disingenuous.

“Odinson.”

“That one, yeah.” 

“I haven’t seen him.”

“Maybe you know someone who has?”

Nakia's brow furrows— she gets the impression that when Brunnhilde asks this, with something strange in her tone, she means something else: a deeper, more delicate question that startles her because she still recognizes such a subtle thing and because the answer, given the present circumstances, should be obvious. But she hesitates.

Brunnhilde’s eyes soften abruptly, pleased rather than simply entertained as she slides from the spacecraft to presumably find Thor herself.

Nakia’s eyes remain on the path of the other woman’s form as she shrinks, further and further into the smoking fields.

**

It’s three months since, and Valkyrie’s planted once again on Wakandan soil—now almost completely grown over green—hands resolute on her hips and smile too small to reach her eyes but still incendiary.

“I… wish I were surprised.”

“You didn’t exile me.”

Nakia doesn't really appreciate how she wants to smile at that, “Unfortunately. Do you have an excuse for trespassing?”

Brunnhilde takes her time to speak like she’s gathering the strength for it, “Your force field’s a little off. I think it’s-”

“Being repaired, right. That’s why you’re not supposed to trespass.” It’s strange to talk against the wall of the palace, with guards off in the periphery eyeing each shift of Valkyrie’s tired shoulders, and Nakia wants to remove herself and preempt their ending because neither of them (most certainly not Nakia) would be able to get it right (especially not this time), but she doesn’t want to enough.

“At least tell me how you got past the security protocols.”

“Sure.”

**

Brunnhilde always arrives in clothes peppered by the stinging scent of the ocean—flannel and soft corduroy that suit her hard form and are usually rumpled from whatever state of overwork she's in. Nakia, who is herself interminably exhausted, wants to extend a hand to straighten out the creases in the fabric—well. That’s false. It has very little to do with clothes, so what does Nakia really want?

The two of them are leaned against spindly tree trunks, light dripping pale yellow onto their limbs and the forest floor, leaves diaphanous like tissue paper floating down every so often to skate the dirt.

Valkyrie’s mannerisms have been tinged with acerbity for a long time now—normally not enough that she's difficult to occupy space with, but enough that on occasion she angers much more easily than she laughs and in such cases, her anger is concealed beneath the same noncommittal veneer. It takes prodding across encounters to get her to explain her particular strain of grief: for Asgard’s people, for old Asgard itself, for the idea of simply living a life unmarred by the back-to-back catastrophe of the last few years.

“The... oldest Asgard you remember, then. How was it?”

As Brunnhilde reflects, suddenly open and looking for the first time at peace, Nakia’s swarmed without preamble by the urge to press her hands where the rumpled cardigan lays on strong, rounded shoulders, and grab, politely but still firmly, and _pull_ , either Valkyrie towards her or more fittingly herself towards Valkyrie. To have the other woman in her hands and to have Valkyrie’s hands all over her, grabbing, holding with that irritatingly casual intensity—

It’s more than a year since, and Nakia has known for a while that she feels like this, but now she catches herself thinking about the feeling itself, whether Valkyrie could be feeling anything like it (she couldn’t be) and what, in the absence of that feeling, the Asgardian could possibly want from this thing that they have.

Whatever it is, Nakia isn't nearly enough, is much too wanting, to give it to her.

**

In four years, the Dora Milaje’s ranks are reworked to fill again and Wakanda’s outreach program supplies food, streamlines housing processes for people across dozens of countries who've found themselves with even less and deserve much better. Between these events, Valkyrie is leaning against the wall of the palace without announcing herself, surreptitiously entering and exiting whenever she thinks Nakia needs a break.

“You wouldn’t know when I need time off work.”

Valkyrie has not changed much physically in this span of time, though the confidence with which she sits in the study, arm swung across the back of the woven chair appears distinctly uncaring- she is at ease absent the need to pretend to be completely okay.

“What if I do? Could be my incredible Asgardian perception. Magic.”

“All the way across the Atlantic.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I’m still always right, though. Here when you need me-”

“Don’t say it like _that_. And you’re here when you feel like coming.”

“And I feel like coming when you need me.”

With smug, lingering eyes, and too much certainty for how little sense it makes the Asgardian states that last part, and Nakia can only half-hide her smile as she turns back to the books in her study. 

There are many more moments like this one, or more suffocating, like when work is slow, and they are backed up against each other and Nakia’s trying to convince Valkyrie to do hand-to-hand with her, and Valkyrie’s full mouth forms a slow, cryptic, grin, “ _You can’t take me._ ” (In response, Nakia’s “ _You_ know _I can._ ”).

Nakia is often sure that they'll simply fizzle out(a slowly unfolding mutual disinterest, not a cataclysmic unwinding like it had been), but it's always inevitable that they see each other again, and again.

**

New Asgard is boisterous as people rejoice, reunite, and get to know each other anew—someone was crating in fireworks earlier, and Nakia's turning over the names of a good many affable Asgardians in her head. Each bout of cold, slow wind brings the taste of salt, and seawater sweeps against the rocks where they sit, nearer to each other than they'd need to be for fishing.

"I don't think I've ever thanked you."

"For?"

"Just being around. For being- my friend, even though I would have expected you to—What?"

Nakia's eyebrows are raised. The idea that she's done anything for which Valkyrie would want to express gratitude is unprecedented for less easily examined reasons.

"Nothing. That's just... surprising to hear from you-"

 _"_ From _me_? To think I was being so sincere. We had a _moment_ going-"

"You mean a lot to me, too, Brunnhilde," Nakia's too chary to exhale and turn to face Valkyrie, whose eyes still haven't left her, and finally say what's been waiting in the back of her throat, "I think I've tied the string wrong."

Neither of them have been paying attention to the fishing poles they're meant to be prepping, and while Brunnhilde's line has come out perfectly, Nakia's is a mess of knots. The Asgardian takes the pole, huffing and not hiding her smile, "You mean the line."

They lapse into periodic silence, waiting for fish and listening to the distant sounds of already drunken celebration.

Far away from the world's darkening silhouette, the combusting sun spits out embers that hit the static surface of the sea and grow to undulating flames of brilliant orange before dying and repeating. It must be the victory after everything, the ebullience of being here with Valkyrie, that makes the end of this day feel like an explosion, like a conclusion as well as an instigation.

There are still no fish, and Valkyrie's voice is low in the quiet.

"I said I was glad that we're friends."

"Yes."

"Well, we don't have to be. Necessarily."

"I wish I didn't know what you mean."

"Nakia-"

"It didn't work the first time."

It's an unworthy challenge to turn away from Valkyrie, whose frown is slight with resolution.

"But it could now. We've already been working when you think about it," Her tone's pressing, a little anticipatory, and Nakia shakes her head but it's futile.

"There is a lot about us that's...different.

"I'd," Nakia's face feels molten, though the fingertips she rests across Valkyrie's sweater, over her collarbone, are frigid, "like to have that with you, though. I didn't think you would want to."

"Really?"

"No."

Her palm hovers over the curve of Nakia's cheek, "I've never _not_ wanted to. Even if I'm always sort of saving face-" Nakia presses that dry hand to her face and it moves immediately to cup the connecting lines of her jaw and neck, "It probably sounds stupid."

"I get it, yeah," that part comes out a chuckle, "It does sound stupid-"

Nakia can't easily word how having Brunnhilde so close to her is like being buoyant in warm, open ocean, or how she understands and feels understood with a clarity she'd forgotten could exist between people.

She doesn't need to right now. Instead she presses herself nearer to Brunnhilde, glides on the feeling of their lips meeting, _them_ , joined, together, submerged by the last beams of the setting sun.

**Author's Note:**

> My first published fanfic, huh. 
> 
> The way it plays out is sorta nebulous, but I figure that has to do with Nakia and Valkyrie probably not being the best at dealing with and expressing their feelings. They're getting better though. 
> 
> Ask all the questions, speak at me in the comments, or on tumblr ([@coniferous](https://coniferous.tumblr.com)), if you like. Kudos are fun and appreciated.


End file.
